


Pink Under The Lights

by Weasleasley (Rohirrim_Writer)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Frotting, Gay dads, Grinding, Harry Potter-centric, M/M, Oral Sex, Pansexual Ron Weasley, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Terminology for genitalia, Trans Male Character, discussions of consent, fear of transphobia, handjobs, mentions of transphobia, no beta we die like men, pansexuality, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rohirrim_Writer/pseuds/Weasleasley
Summary: Harry loved the club, loved the jolt of adrenaline he got in the press of bodies and the thump of the bass like they all had one great heartbeat. He loved the feel of his shirt sticking to his back and wayward  curls clinging to his forehead. He loved feeling unequivocally and irrevocably alive.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 106





	Pink Under The Lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HPTransFest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPTransFest/gifts).



> I tried to be informative in the tags, so that people could be discerning as to whether they wanted to, or were able to, read this fic. I know everyone's experiences are different, but I tried to be inclusive of many kinds of trans experiences. I chose to write to a lot of my personal experience, because that's what I know. My wish is for it to be something that can be enjoyed by anyone.  
> I also do not have a beta and would ask that you be considerate of that fact when reading. I wrote this during quarantine. I want to be able to provide content during this time and didn't want not having a beta to stop me.  
> This fic was inspired by the HPTransfest2020, though not for a prompt it gave me the courage to write more content for trans characters.

Harry loved the club, loved the jolt of adrenaline he got in the press of bodies and the thump of the bass like they all had one great heartbeat. He loved the feel of his shirt sticking to his back and wayward curls clinging to his forehead. He loved feeling unequivocally and irrevocably alive.

Sirius and Remus had taken him out on his 21st birthday, they joked about their presences being a downer, “Nobody wants to get drunk in front of their Dads, Remus love.” Sirius had laughed. It had been more fun than Harry imagined though, getting to explore and test his limits safely, knowing they were right there if he needed them. That had been how it always was with them, Sirius, Remus, and Harry against the world, always with a safe place to call home.

Granted, Harry had taken a while longer yet to discover his limits, Harry had called an uber on more than one occasion to deposit him on his parent’s doorstep to be nursed back to health in those days. Not that Harry over-drank by any means, but when you’ve never had a rum and coke before it’s hard to know how many rum and coke’s it takes before you end up completely shitfaced.

Harry much preferred to stay this side of sober most of the time, thanks in part to Remus’s sliding alcohol consumption pocket chart, he did. So when he walked into the bar, the air growing heavy, he ordered a mojito with lime and nursed it slowly. He liked to watch first, get a little buzzed, and then when he had finished his first (and sometimes only) drink, he would press into the fray. This, in part, avoided having to babysit his drink or worry about someone slipping something in it. At the bar he drank and on the dance floor he danced-or some sort of approximation of it. Sometimes, just sometimes, he would end up in a grimy bathroom stall or out on the patio. On those days he performed a different kind of dance.

Harry came here tonight looking for the latter. Sure, he would blow off a little steam first, scope his prospects. So, while he sipped his drink straight from the rim, ignoring the little red straw, he watched the dancefloor. The DJ was playing too much Kygo, but the beat of the bass was a nice mood setter. The lights twisted along the dance floor in blue, purple, and pink making the bodies beneath seem to moving in stunted movements. Hands on hips, then waists, then chests. Harry shivered in anticipation of hands running along his body.

In the middle, movements almost clumsy, a tall body rose above the rest. Harry felt the familiar burn of attraction, something that came in rare jolts, completely unprovoked and without any correlation. Harry could hardly say that he had a type. His movements almost seemed, drunken, but the longer Harry watched the more apparent it became that he simply didn’t care. He stood at least a head taller than anyone else on the dance floor, limiting how he could engage with those around him, a hand here, a knee there. He let off the feeling of an easy kind of sex, like the sweaty collapse of limbs after orgasm.

Harry swallowed down the rest of his drink. He moved through the crowd steadily, moving with the beat of the music rather than fighting his way through, let himself be turned on by the bodies brushing and gyrating against him. By the time he could see the long-limbed man without straining over the heads of the other dancers, he was sweating and breathing heavier.

Up close his hair looked fuchsia under the lights shaggy against his nape, sticking to his skin. Harry wanted to hold his hand there, while he guided that head down to take him in his mouth. Harry practically vibrated with it, the excitement, the dare of it.

He moved in closer, just so back brushed along him as he moved with the crowd. He felt electrified by it, the way slowly, moving with the crowd, his shoulders came to move more solidly against him, and then the backs of his thighs. Harry wanted to catch a look at his face up close, see if he would look how Harry had imagined, head thrown back, smiling and moving to the music, drunk on it.

He did. When Harry craned his neck to the side to look up, he could make out his boyish features more clearly. He looked fucking hot. Part of Harry was reminded of middle aged moms in Zumba classes, but Harry thought he might maybe be into that, because he’s certainly into the way this man is throwing himself into enjoying himself with glee.

It’s just then, or perhaps Harry has been looking at him for longer than he realized, that the man looks down at him. His eyes are cool blue, icy and piercing in the low lighting, eyes that look like they are in on a joke. Maybe they are, maybe he is laughing at himself, able to let go an not care in a way that Harry doesn’t know how to be. Harry holds his gaze while he considers this, unaware that at this point, their movements have taken on a different tone. There’s a sensuality to his movements now that their focus has dialed into each other.

Harry finds himself turning toward him. Harry’s 5’ 9” and the guy stands about half a foot above him, The top of Harry’s head meeting his shoulders.

Harry slides closer until the stranger’s leg comes between his, breathing slowly through his nose, as he feels the glide of it along the insides of his thighs. His breathing catches when the beat suddenly drops, something he forgot to listen for, and the stranger jumps with is, thigh grinding against Harry.

Harry’s eyes fly to his, but he’s already looking at the DJ again, shouting the words to a song Harry doesn’t know, body bobbing with it. His hands, however, have slipped down to hold Harry against him and their movements take Harry higher and higher. Harry has to reach out and hold his waist in return to keep his balance and the man starts, attention once again drawn to Harry. Their faces are close enough to feel the warm stickiness of each other’s breath and in a rush of stubborn bravery, Harry brings his hand up the man’s body, the stranger’s shirt clinging to his body wherever he touches, leaving dark sweaty hand prints against his shirt and that shouldn’t be hot but it _is_. With his hands on either shoulder, Harry hoists himself up just enough that when he takes in a lungful of breath it’s straight from the stranger’s mouth and with a final look in those impossibly blue eyes he is kissing him.

It’s good. _Fuck_ it’s good and Harry’s not sure what feels better, the slick slide of their lips, or the thigh that’s still pressed against Harry’s aching dick. It’s downright filthy the way the stranger’s sweat drips from his forehead to Harry’s but Harry _loves_ it. Harry slides his hair along the tendons of the other’s neck until he can grip at his hair, dragging him in for a little bit longer. When they break the stranger is grinning, the stretch of it keeping their lips apart.

“Wanna?” He starts, but Harry is already there. He’s already checking in, unpacked, and made himself at home.

“Ya.” He breathes against that smile and then they’re fighting their way to the bathrooms. There’s a line a mile long, but they slip the guy selling condoms and cigarettes and gum a wad of cash and then they’re in a stall and Harry’s back is pressed against the wall and the mischief from the dance floor is gone but it’s no less hot.

The man’s moving with a single minded purpose, drawing pleasure out of Harry like water. They both know that the men’s isn’t the place for the soul sucking, open mouthed kisses currently being trailed down Harry’s neck, but neither one moves to go further, until Harry’s hand finds it’s way back to that spot, the elegant curve of the back of his neck and almost without thinking, he pushes him down. Down, down, down, until bright blue eyes are looking up at him and moist breath is brushing at the sliver of skin above the button of his jeans.

Harry’s breathing is deep and quick, can see it, can see the way his chest rises and falls between them. He can’t tell the feelings apart, the anticipation singing up his spine and the apprehension clawing at his diaphragm. He thrusts his zipper towards the man’s already kiss blown lips. Harry knows there are things he should be saying here. Questions he should be asking, but some part of him twists darkly at the thought. Harry wants to be able to get a blowjob in a nasty club bathroom without having to spell everything out first. Without having to feel different.

So he lets the stranger pull down his zipper, watches with a twisted fascination, a desperate kind of need for this too, as he palms the flat front of Harry’s briefs in confusion. Harry watches the realization dawn with a twisted kind of satisfaction. Then, slowly, the man drew Harry’s denim’s and briefs down his hips, together. The thick line of hair that started on Harry’s chest becoming more and more exposed, but nothing with it.

When Harry’s waistband reached the middle of his thighs the man stopped. Harry waited, hand on his neck and shoulder looser now, more there as a precaution to push him away than anything. The man sat for a minute, eye to eye with Harry’s groin and Harry waited.

He knew what he looked like, his cock having grown over the years of testosterone treatments until it wasn’t a clit anymore but it wasn’t a cock either. It stuck out between the his folds, like a small cock and balls almost, in a way. Everything about him was like a man, except for this, but Harry had moved on from that a long time ago. Harry’s body was a man’s body and his cock, his slit, it was all a man’s. He watched the man take it in, licking his lips slowly, hands sliding up the hair on Harry’s thighs, coming to rest on the crests of his hip bones.

“You want me to suck you off, ya?” The first time Harry heard his voice and he had Harry shuddering, hands involuntarily clutching at his body.

“Yes.” Harry can’t quite stop the way his ‘s’ trails off. He looks down at the man, whose thumbs have started to stroke the sensitive swath of skin below his belly button. The man nods, moving forward to nuzzle the trail of hair there, trying in short order to get accustomed to Harry’s body. Then, all at once, his mouth is trailing, open mouthed to his cock. It’s a sudden stimuli and it has Harry arching off the stall wall and further into his mouth, into the shocking zing of direct clitoral stimulation.

The man on his knees responds by moving his hands around Harry’s body to haul him closer by the ass, so that Harry’s being held up by his toes and the way the stranger’s broad shoulders hold his legs apart. Harry’s gasping and he knows there are other people in this bathroom, that what they are doing is elicit and dangerous in the day and age where someone could slip a phone camera under or over a stall easily, but he can’t stop it, not when the man’s mouth moves lower and when one hand comes to move two fingers and his thumb around him and pump him with loose pressure like a cock.

Somewhere in the building heat of orgasm, between gasping up at the ceiling like an angel or God himself might appear, and pulling his stomach in and arching out to get a better view, Harry realizes that the man between his legs is a red head. His orange hair splaying in spikes between Harry’s grasping hand. Harry can just make out a freckle right on the tip of his left ear from behind his skewed glasses and it’s the last thing Harry notices before he is swallowed up in an acute kind of ecstasy. It’s like being pulled underwater suddenly by the ankles and Harry burns with it.

The redhaired man moves back to his cock and sucks him through it until Harry is crying out and he moves off to suck the rest of his come away. Harry feels unsteady as he pulls the man up again, kissing his own come off his mouth, his cheeks, his chin. He’s only vaguely aware of the man’s arm pumping between him, the drag of it against his shirt, until the man is gasping into his mouth and Harry feels his cum on his skin, painting the hair of his groin and soaking through his shirt.

They hold each other like that for a minute, while they come down. Then the man is stepping away and Harry grabs a wad of toilet paper, cleaning himself up and pulling his pants back up around his waist with unsteady movements. The man is leaning against the stall, trying to get his breathing back to normal like he just ran a marathon. When Harry’s done, he opens the door and follows him out the the sinks. Harry watches him in the mirror as he throws a handful of water on his face and scrubs at it for a second before pumping soap into his hands and scrubbing them too.

Their eyes meet in the mirror and the man smiles at him, a lopsided grin, his eyes still blown and his jaw red with the burn of the hair around Harry’s cock. Harry pats down the back of his neck with the cool water of his wet hands before the man they already tipped is handing them paper towels and they are tipping him _again._ Harry can feel him at his back as he moves lazily past the slightly longer line to the bathroom, and the bar, and out onto the street, before he turns.

He’s already called a lyft. He had his phone out as they walked to the door, but he hasn’t put it away yet. He’s waiting to see what the other man will say. It’s not what he is expecting.

“You should have said something before.” Except it’s everything Harry’s expecting. He can feel the regret and the guilt twisting, ugly and snarled in his stomach. “It could have been dangerous.” This Harry knows and he is trying to parcel out whether this is a threat or a redundant warning. The man grows even more serious, if possible, losing some of the boyish, rogue from inside.

“I didn’t know what your limits were, I was afraid I’d do something you didn’t like.” Harry cringes this time. The reality of how fucked up what he just did is sucker punching him in the gut.

“Did you-“ Harry thinks he might choke on the word, “not want to?” The man raises a hand to card through his hair, sending it into further disarray. He shakes his head and a small grin returns, just at the corners of his mouth.

“No. I did. I just didn’t know how to and you kind of left me out of that.” He sighs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “I mean, part of that’s on me. I should have said something. Should have asked. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing though and have it all be over.” They are at an impasse now, both of them realizing their own faults and silently stewing in them.

“I’m sorry.” Harry’s the first to break the silence. The other man looks over at him, quick, but his eyes stay, locked on Harry’s.

“I do normally, I mean I know that doesn’t do you a lot of good, but I do. I just,” Harry tears his gaze away and watches the 1 am traffic flick down the street. “I get tired of it.” Saying it out loud Harry realizes what a poor excuse it is, how it doesn’t excuse or forgive the little choice he’d given his partner.

Harry’s phone vibrates in his hand. His driver is here. He looks up and there his is, pulled up to the curb about twenty feet from them. He turns back to the man, who is still watching him with an unnerving gaze.

“My cars here. I gotta go.” Harry doesn’t know what else to say. He’s obviously already ruined this. He pictures for a moment what it might have been like if he hadn’t. If he’d gone home with him. If they’d fucked proper. He aches with the realization that it would have been _good._

“You can always come back to mine, if you want.” Harry is struck by the offer, by the casual way the man offers it to him, by the way he seems so completely unfazed by what Harry’s answer will be. Harry’s used to offers growled into his ear or his mouth, wrecked from sucking cock.

“Thanks, but I think tonight I just need to go home and sober up.” He’s not drunk, not really. He’s just that kind of loose and lax that comes from a drink. He’s comfortable, if anything. But he also knows that he’s emotionally fucked up and he needs to sober up from _that_.

The man smiles a gentler smile at that and moves a bit away. It’s kind, Harry realizes, it’s thoughtful. He doesn’t push more, “Get some rest, love. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He moves to go back in the doors.

“You can have my number, if you want.” This is knew to Harry. Sure he’d given his number to students at the library, or barista’s, but never to someone at the club. Never to one of his bathroom conquests.

“Ya, sure.” Then Harry’s turning back on his phone, and he knows his lyft driver is going to be pissed, but he’s giving the guy his number, and _Christ_ his name. And then Harry’s phone is buzzing, because the man, _Ron_ , had texted him already, but he’s already running to his lyft and giving the guy a final wave before collapsing in the back.

“Sorry, you can charge me for that.” And he pulls a stick of gum thoughtlessly from the center console and downs a water bottle before opening up his phone again to read Ron’s message.

_I can still taste your cock in my mouth._


End file.
